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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29475105">The Arena</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/EyesLikeStorms/pseuds/EyesLikeStorms'>EyesLikeStorms</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Deffo not canon, F/M, Force-Sensitive Reader, My own version of the Force don't at me, This Din fucks, no offense intended to rodians</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 22:01:45</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,857</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29475105</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/EyesLikeStorms/pseuds/EyesLikeStorms</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Newly equipped with the Force, you're ready to fight your way to a new life — but when your first opponent is a Mandalorian, you start to rethink your plans.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Din Djarin &amp; Reader, Din Djarin/Reader, Din Djarin/You</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>21</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Ready for Blood</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I listened to a lot of Purity Ring while writing this story. Who knew they wrote so many songs about Din Djarin?</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>At long last, it had come to this — a way out. </p><p>The chance at a new life had bloomed before you like a river’s delta, and you jumped in without thinking. And it had carried you on a current of hope, depositing you now at the gates of the arena. You signed the contract waiving away the rights to your life, selected a spear as your weapon of choice, and waited, now, to conquer whoever must be conquered. You’d stand on anyone’s bloodied body to get where you’re going — which is to say, <em> anywhere else</em>. The opportunity had lit a fire in you a week ago, and your blood had simmered with anticipation and anxiety ever since. You, a restless soul, are never happy, never at peace during periods of inaction. You only know <em> action</em>: making choices quickly and putting the choices in motion.  </p><p>This choice was an easy one: Fight, win, make money, buy a shitty ship or passage on one, get the hell off of this rocky hellscape and make a new life for yourself. Your bag was already packed with your meager belongings, stashed in the locker in the fighters’ den where you now lie in wait. </p><p>One fight would be enough, credits-wise — although you, cloaked in disguise, had approached the bookie and made a few extra sly bets on yourself to pad the earnings. The bookie had raised his eyebrows at your bet — no one bets on a new girl, but you have always bet on yourself — but accepted the bet without questioning it. It meant nothing to the bookie either way; those who worked at the arena were fellow wayward souls, no one staying in this place for too long. People came here to make money, watch a fight, see some blood. Most of the long-timers were crystal miners, like your family, the trade you had reluctantly inherited. Never has a day passed where you haven’t had to clean crystal dust from under your fingernails; it’s embedded in your hands at this point, tiny glittering shards under your skin, an ever-present reminder of your origin. </p><p>The only requirements for your next destination? No <em>rocks</em>. Well, mountains would be OK, but only if they were covered in verdant foliage and bright flowers. You could even deal with snow, might welcome it, a change to the ever-present storms that left everything, including you, perpetually drenched. Soft snowfall sounded far more appealing than slippery wetness. How many times have you twisted your ankle in the mines, stumbling over slick rock in the darkness, your worn shoes gaining more and more holes?</p><p>You think of the mines and shudder. You can’t go back now, never again. You left a tomb behind, a pile of black rubble and a body underneath. Days later, you’re still not sure what you <em> did </em> — all miners know that the wrong swing of a pickaxe can bring a whole mountain down. But that wasn’t it — you are dexterous enough, strong enough, after years of work. No, something else had happened, and you remember that the rumbling had started with <em> you</em>. A spark of energy kindled in your gut; at first you thought something had wriggled its way into you, some sort of parasite from the wet depths of the earth, and you had started to panic. But the sensation began to feel good, like an internal warmth spreading through your limbs and to your fingers. You felt alight, aglow—</p><p>And looked it, too — Samar, the minemaster you had known since childhood and despised for about as long, looked over at you and pointed. “Didn’t I tell you no lanterns down here?” he growled.</p><p>External light sources masked the glowing crystals embedded in the black rock; you were used to working in darkness. But you saw it, too, the glow. You twisted around, seeking the light source to which he was referring, bracing yourself for his impending punishment, only to glance down to see an aura of light around your own body. </p><p>You recognized it instantly, knew it from the stories you had heard, <em>felt </em> it instinctually: the Force. You had called out for it for years, pleading with the universe for some semblance of… power? Aid? Strength? But it had been in you all along, and you could finally detect it.</p><p>But you couldn’t yet control it — Samar’s accusation made you grip the handle of the pickaxe and grit your teeth, and before you could move, the cavern quaked, shifted, and collapsed. And you climbed out from the rubble, stopped by your tent to grab your satchel, and left for another settlement right as the caravan to the arena stopped along your path, looking for fighters.</p><p>That first night away from the mines, you wondered why you didn’t feel guilty for Samar’s demise. Upon morning, you knew — you were a source of light where there is none, and Samar would have extinguished it given the chance. Only you can fan your own flame. </p><p>Now, you lie on a cot in the fighters’ den, dreaming of forests. It’s the first morning of the gauntlet, and the only day you plan to stay — once you win this first fight, you’ll collect your winnings and hightail it to the flight bay a mile away. No need to stay longer than necessary; you have enough crystals to sell once you get to the next planet, enough for rations and supplies. The crystals alone aren’t enough to leave, but with your earnings, you’ll find a way to get by.</p><hr/><p>Coreno, the fight master — a Rodian whose voice makes you scratchy, less because of the voice itself but more of <em>how</em> he says things — steps into the den. You sit up, heart starting to pound. It’s time. </p><p>“Change of plans, girlie,” he says, and your heart drops — a delay? A wrench in your plans? “First fighter dropped out. You’ll be facing a Tier 2 opponent now.” He laughs cruelly and glances down at his holopad, the glowing lines connecting fighter to fighter. With a sharp nail he rearranges the order; you see your name remain in place as another name is moved beside yours.</p><p>Tier 2? That’s a substantial level above, and one of several reasons you hadn’t planned to see that gauntlet all the way through. Tier 1 was scrappy fighting with simple weapons; Tier 2 meant <em> armor</em>. Which you don’t have.</p><p>“What about armor?” you inquire, trying to figure out if you can spare a crystal to trade — but who? Maybe there’s a selection of spare armor, taken off the bodies of fallen fighters… unlikely, since anything like that would be looted and sold almost immediately. But you have to ask, to have any chance now that the situation has changed.</p><p>“What about it?” Coreno says.</p><p>You snort. “Tier 2 is for armored combatants. Is there a supply of spare armor?”</p><p>Coreno looks at you with amusement and derision. “That’s something <em> you </em> should have thought of, missy. Were you not planning on making it past the first round?”</p><p>Point taken. You purse your lips to keep the rest of your plans a secret — Coreno can’t know that you’re planning to leave after you win. There’s no way he’ll let you take the winnings and run, when you could make the arena more money by staying.</p><p>You’ll just have to fight your way out, which you had planned to do from the get-go. You clench your fists and feel the Force within you, feral and untrained, but potent. Without having any time to learn how to use it, you’ll have to use it nonetheless. </p><p>“Up and at ‘em!” Coreno barks. “It’s showtime.”</p><p>Stomach clenching painfully, you grab your spear and stand, following Coreno out into the arena, holding on to your last semblance of dignity as your knuckles clench around the weapon.</p><p>It’s raining already, a light mist that coats the gritty black sand ground under your boots. Each crunching footstep heralds doom, and your heart thuds like a death knell as you step out into the feeble gray light of day.</p><p>Jagged rock formations encircle the sandy fighting pit. Spectators sit on roughly hewn benches carved into the rock, and they stand and yell as you and your opponent enter, you emerging from one tunnel and them from another, bringing you both to the center point. </p><p>Coreno wordlessly leaves you in the pit without so much as a “Good luck!” and heads back down the tunnel through which you just emerged and up to his vantage point above the pit. From there, he will declare the start of the fight. You have a brief moment to survey your opponent and come up with some sort of strategy.</p><p>The opponent before you is... <em> tall, </em> and armored from head to toe. From the broad shoulders bedecked in metal and overall looming stature, you guess tentatively that the person is male without having much else to go off of. Rain drips off of the gleaming helm, dozens of tiny rivulets snaking down the pauldrons on his shoulders. Like recognizing the Force, you know immediately who this person is from the lore you’ve heard since you were a child: a Mandalorian. </p><p>A true, trained warrior, as all Mandalorians are — something you are not and have never been. He, too, has a spear, and you bet he’s far quicker with it than you are. In every way, this is <em> not </em> what you expected. You expected someone like you, a scrappy fighter holding an unfamiliar weapon. You’d planned to use the Force, somehow. You had been so certain that you could win this, cocky almost — not because you’re an experienced fighter, but because your hope and desperation empowers you. </p><p>You try to see yourself through his eyes, a hunter evaluating its prey. How many creatures has this Mandalorian felled before you? Through his eyes, you see an unarmored young woman gripping a spear she does not know how to use, knuckles white around it. You see your hair, braided way from your face, already damp and dripping from the storm about to break overhead. You see your eyes, wide in terror. You see an easy mark that he will crush in two blows.</p><p>Your bravado evaporates, soaks back into the jagged rocks of your home planet, mingles with the light rain that begins to fall. Hope is a foolish endeavor. You were destined to perish here, and now you’ll watch yourself die in the reflection of the Mandalorian’s armor. </p><hr/><p>Din looks at the girl — woman — before him, guesses that she could be anywhere from 18 to 30 years old. Din learned early that age means little in the galaxy. Quality of life varied wildly from planet to planet: a 20-year-old human woman native to a lush planet where water was abundant would have radiant and smooth skin, a far contrast from a woman of 20 borne of the desert, lines already crinkling around the corners of her eyes. And that didn’t even get into the differences in age among creatures and species. His own current companion was older than him by a handful of years, and you’d never know it by the caretaking the “child” required. Grogu was back at the ship, alone: a gamble for sure, and Din hopes he’ll return to find the ship in one piece.</p><p>No, the youth of this woman came through her posture, a scrappy, untrained, and defensive stance that would do little to actually protect her. This was a young woman who was used to being on the defense. Beyond that, though? He was good at reading the stories of people’s lives from their bodies. But this woman — this woman eludes him. </p><p>And now, he's tasked with defeating her in combat. Which he knows he can, and must, do. She has no chance against him, and the truth of it sinks into his stomach, a dreadful resignation that comes with taking a life that probably doesn’t deserve to be taken.</p><p>Still, she’s putting up a good front, looking at him straight with wide, luminous eyes. He knows that look: the determination and sheer grit, the clenching of teeth and narrowing of eyes. The terror that ripples underneath the facade, evident by fingers trembling as they clasp a weapon. He knows that look all too well: the look of someone fighting for their life. </p><p>The fight hasn’t started yet, and Din thinks quickly. The fight must end with a body, and so must his assignment; Karga had put him up to this, settling a score with the fightmaster Coreno whom Din found despicable. Din had spent his life being a fighter and mercenary; he was no stranger to violence. So when someone chose to enjoy violence for sport — well, that just about infuriated Din in every way possible. Nothing stood in starker contrast to his own values, tenuous as they were at times. </p><p>Those who <em>chose </em> to fight, however, whether that be for money or pride — <em>that</em>, Din could respect. He sees in the woman’s eyes the same look he had once had given the Mandalorians who had raised and trained him: a desire to prove her worth. </p><p>He shifts in his armor, slick with rain, trying to judge the amount of fuel left in his jetpacks attached to his back. Coreno didn’t say he <em> couldn’t </em>keep that on his person, and while Din is bound by rules and creed, he knows better than to ever offer enemies a chance to win. His own rules are non-negotiable, but others’? Din would have never stayed alive this long if he had put too much faith in other people. </p><p>Enough fuel, he measures — enough to let her give a good fight, knock him around a bit. The storm above is worsening, and he sees lightning fracture the sky in a golden bolt. If he times it right, he can get them both out of there and find a way to leave a body in the pit…</p><p>Coreno calls out, “Begin!” and the crowd erupts in a roar, hungry for blood. </p><p>The woman doesn’t waste one second; she gives a feral cry and launches at Din, spear point aimed straight at his throat.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. The Light</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>You give a strangled shout, let your fear loose into the storm, and launch yourself forward with the spear pointed at the Mandalorian. It feels good to <em> scream</em>. The sound is filled with everything you feel: full of terror. </p><p>There is a moment of catharsis as your spear meets the metal covering your opponent’s chest; the impact jars you but something feels… <em> good </em> about landing a hit. Your first blow and the recipient is a Mandalorian. </p><p>Of course, the spear does nothing, doesn’t even leave a scratch on the gleaming breastplate. He clearly <em> let </em> you make contact. The Mandalorian simply stands there and tilts his head at you, and the simple gesture sends a ripple of dread down your spine. As he remains in place, you whirl around again, as if you know what you’re doing although you’re sure it’s obvious that you don’t. The spear drags on the ground as you twirl and you lift it again, ready to launch—</p><p>He deflects the second strike easily, and with a casual flick of his wrist that requires no exertion, he sends the spear flying from your hand and takes a step toward you.</p><p><em> Fuck. </em> Your mouth goes dry and you scramble backward, tripping over your own feet and falling hard on your tailbone. The ground is wet now, turning the loose sand into slippery, thick mud, and the dampness seeps into your back and legs. Your skin is cold and you’re shaking hard, but your insides are on fire and every breath is an effort. You rotate quickly in the muck, coming up on all fours and starting to crawl desperately toward your spear lying several feet away. The din of the crowd is deafening and blends in with the thunder that groans and rolls overhead. It quakes in your chest and you drown in the sensory chaos. </p><p>He’s approaching you, and he moves <em> fast </em> despite being so laden in what looks like heavy armor; the glint of silver out of the corner of your eye signals his position right behind you. You see the rotation of the spear in his hand — again, it’s effortless, the way he moves — and roll over, supine and vulnerable, waiting for the spear to impale you. </p><p><em> It can’t be this easy</em>, you think, as a flash of lightning pierces the sky overhead. <em> It can’t be this easy to die. </em> Rain begins to fall with tenacity and it’s all over your face, trickling down your clothes, obscuring your vision and impeding your movement; you blink away the wetness to see the spear moving toward you—</p><p>You hold up your hands, conjure fury, and <em> push</em>. </p><hr/><p>Din feels a <em> whoosh </em> of wind and energy meet him square in the chest, and the spear flies out of his hands as he staggers back.  </p><p>Well—<em> that</em>, he was not expecting. <em> That </em> changes things. </p><p>Is it the Force? The impact was certainly <em> force</em>, some sort of concentrated effort to move the spear by manipulating the laws of science, wielding the atmosphere for her purpose. He’s seen what that looks like, when Grogu moves things from a distance while waving his tiny hands. Din knows firsthand that the Force manifests most powerfully during moments of desperation; he’s been on the receiving end of that more than once. He felt the woman’s push as if she had placed her two hands on his chest and done it. But she remains on the ground, still prone. </p><p>Now they are both weapon-less, but Din doesn’t need the spear. While he’s thinking, she reacts quickly and scrambles quickly to hers, and it jumps into her hands before she makes contact. </p><p><em> Does she know? </em> he wonders. Does she know that she has the Force? Or was that just an accident?</p><p>Her hands shake violently around the spear as she whirls to face him again. Is the trembling the result of fear, exertion, cold, a combination of all three? The storm has turned nasty and the wind picks up. Sand whips across the arena; even the spectators begin to cover their faces with bits of fabric, shielding their faces from the bluster as the miniscule pebbles are lifted easily and tossed about. They clatter against Din’s helmet with dozens of tiny <em> taps</em>. But the rain slides off easily, the interior mechanisms of his helmet working to leave the facade unfogged, providing him with a crisp, clear view. </p><p>The arena, the jagged rocks surrounding, the woman making her way back toward him with an impressive snarl—it’s all in grayscale. Even with a different mode selected in his helmet, Din suspects this planet is perpetually <em>gray</em>. It’s rather dreary, all rock and rain. Life here must be hard. No wonder they all flock to the arena; it’s something to watch. And something to do. There are winnings involved, but Din can’t imagine it’s enough to mean anything. Whatever credits he earns here is secondary to the deal he made with Karga for something far more valuable than credits: information. </p><p>Whatever the winnings, it’s important enough to his opponent to bring her back to her feet and sprinting toward him. Despite the elements, the crowd is on their collective feet, shouting into the storm. The woman’s use of the Force was dangerous, Din thinks. Grogu purposely hides his unless the situation calls for it. </p><p>The spear comes up again and Din deflects it without sending it scattering again, stepping back to give her more room and leverage, a move that she interprets as defensive. She steps forward and swings it again and it meets the edge of his breastplate; he twists slightly as she pulls her hands back to repeat the action. <em> She needs to try something else </em> , Din thinks, feeling a strange urge to <em> show </em> her how she should be holding the weapon. A sensation similar to how he feels occasionally with Grogu; most of the time, Grogu teaches Din something, but every now and then Din tries to impart some of his own wisdom onto the kid. Stars knows he’s earned enough of it the hard way.</p><p>The woman twirls again and comes up on his other side, aiming the spear <em> up </em> instead of straight at him. That’s good, a change in stance and tactic is what a smart fighter does. He should respond and do something more than just dodge the attack. Her footsteps telegraph her actions, and he easily moves around her as they dance a ballet in the mud. </p><p>What can he possibly do to fulfill the deal with Karga without having to slay his opponent? One well-placed blow, one expulsion of fire from his wrist: that’s all it would require to take her out, win the match, be done with this. But doing so seems—<em> wrong</em>. She’s not trained, she’s not wearing armor, and clearly the winnings mean something to her to make her fight under such conditions. She had no way of knowing she’d go up against a Mandalorian, Din reasons. She’s not a quarry, just a woman dealt a bad hand. He’s a bounty hunter, not a cold-blooded murderer. Well, most of the time. Only when it’s necessary. </p><p>Lightning cracks and a bolt spears the ground in the arena. The woman flinches at the sound and close proximity. She glances up and Din follows her vision to see what she sees; another bright bolt arcs across the sky and catches her eyes in the violent light. She’s fierce, he’ll give her that. He knows little about the Force but he can feel whatever she’s emanating, a concoction of strength, foolishness, desperation. It radiates around her, stirs the sand at her feet. Is she connected to the storm? </p><p>When he finally looks back at her face, she’s staring square at him, grinning.</p><hr/><p>You feel it now: the power of the storm. The thunder rumbles in your chest; the lightning spreads through your veins. It’s tied to you, somehow, or you to it. It grows wilder as you do. </p><p>You made a mountain collapse once without even meaning to, and you can do it again. This is your way out. </p><p>The Mandalorian is covered in metal armor. If you can grab hold of the lightning, be its conduit, you can lasso him with it. You’re pretty sure he’s human under there, and as far as you know, metal and electricity tend to be bad for humans.</p><p>It’s a huge risk for you, too, but you're not wearing metal, people have survived being struck by lightning, and you’d rather die by the hands of the elements than by a warrior who far outclasses you in every way. It’s all just energy—how different can lightning be from the Force itself? You don’t even need to touch it, just <em> move </em> it.</p><p>You have a rod that can amplify the power so you can control it: your spear. You’re in mid-lunge when you make the realization, glancing upward as the sky erupts with light and down again at the metal-clad warrior before you. The lightning striking the sand was deafening, leaving shards of glass in its wake. </p><p>Quickly, you switch gears and plunge the spear point-down in the mud. It sinks a few inches and remains upright. The Mandalorian glances at it before slowly moving away, raising his hands—he knows what you’re about to do.</p><p>Now, you have to summon the lightning. <em> Don’t overthink it</em>, you tell yourself. <em> Just feel. Don’t think</em>. You have been light before. You know what it feels like to glow from within. It will yield to you. </p><p>You reach for it, both with your soul and with your hands—your arms shoot up as if the lightning would come from your palms, emitting light into the sky.</p><p>At the same moment, nature acquiesces: another bolt breaks the sky in two, a stunning golden light that illuminates the gray and flows molten over the arena. It catches the jagged edges of the circular rocks around, a golden crown with you and the Mandalorian at the center. Rather than dissipating after a moment, the lightning remains, waiting for your order.</p><p>Your link to it is tenuous; you feel a loose connection to it, a similar energy surging through you and the electricity overhead. You fling your arms toward the spear serving as your rod, and the lighting follows your lead. Lightning hits the spear and the weapon trembles and vibrates with crackling energy. </p><p>You fling your arms again in the direction of the Mandalorian. He brings his arms up over his head as a potent streak of lightning springs from the spear straight to him—your heart is in your throat…</p><p>But instead of enveloping him and sending him in shock to the mud, the lightning hits his metal arm braces straight on—before it ricochets <em>away</em> from him. You dodge as your own power lances back to you.</p><p>Well, shit. You didn’t think his armor could <em>repel lightning</em>. What the hell kind of metal is that anyway? Some of the power seems to have shocked him; he’s shaking violently now, but whatever he wears took the brunt of it and sent it away. </p><p>You glance over your shoulder as the ricocheted lightning hits a spectator stand behind you. The spectators yelp and scatter, ducking under the benches to find some sort of cover.</p><p>Your link to the lightning loosens just slightly, like a knot coming undone. You won’t have it for much longer, and the energy it’s requiring from you is substantial. It's taking as much as it's giving. The rod is still aglow and crackling; perhaps you can target the energy again— </p><p>The Mandalorian is moving toward you fast, fists clenched at his side. No wonder, that bolt probably still hurt even though it didn’t have quite the effect you intended. He’s nearly on you now and you bring your hands up automatically in defense—</p><p>“Do that again,” he shouts. His voice barely cuts through the noise but it reaches you nonetheless. “Aim it at my pauldron.”</p><p>… <em>What? </em></p><p>“So you can just fling it back at me?” you shout. “No fucking way!”</p><p>You twist your hand and another arc breaks off of the spear—you aim it for his chestplate. Like before, he braces himself as the lightning hits square on, and he flings it away again—but to another area where spectators sit. They, too, shriek and scatter, avoiding electrocution. </p><p>“Aim it. At. My pauldrons,” The Mandalorian says again. His voice is all intimidation, no-nonsense. </p><p>What? Why would he be asking—no, <em> telling </em> you what to do? You defy him again and your next bolt of lightning hits his other arm brace; he sends it flying behind him where it hits a bench, just barely missing a gaggle of spectators. The audience seems to be having far less fun now that they, too, are at risk of injury, and they clamber hurriedly to the exits, shielding themselves from the turbulent weather and pushing each other out of the way. No one knows where the next bolt will land, and no one wants to chance it.</p><p>The arena starts to clear but the battle is still going. You glance up to see Coreno still sitting at his vantage point—he holds up the holo to shield his face from rain. He looks positively delighted at the turn of events, despite the fact that his viewers and source of income are scattering en masse to avoid a Mandalorian ricochet. </p><p>Your opponent has stopped moving, his hands crossed in front of his chest. He tilts his head in Coreno’s direction. Confused, you look from the waning electricity surrounding your spear and up to the fightmaster’s box. </p><p>Is… the Mandalorian trying to <em>help</em> you? </p><p>If you take out Coreno, the match is over. There are few people, if any, to serve as witnesses. And you’ll still be alive.</p><p>You don’t hesitate. You never do.</p><p>You wrangle the last of the lightning still clinging to the spear and to your Force—with all your might, you <em>push</em> it toward the Mandalorian, aiming for his right pauldron. He nods and bends slightly; the pauldron catches the lightning and he shoves his shoulder upward with a fluid movement. A golden bolt arcs up, up, up toward Coreno, lacing itself around the Rodian. You <em>pull</em>, and the lightning tugs the fightmaster over the balcony where he falls into the pit, singed, shocked—and dead. </p><p>The rest of the lightning fizzles out like a doused candle. You look around you, but the rain obscures most of your vision. You can just barely make out the empty arena. You have to leave <em>now</em>, the fight is over as far as you're concerned, and you need to grab your bag in the fighter’s den before utter chaos breaks out—</p><p>You turn on your heel before strong arms wrap around your torso and you’re being lifted into the sky. The Mandalorian carries you <em>up</em>, out over the arena, through the rain, into the storm, into the unknown.  </p>
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